Saturday, November 9, 2013

A Shrimp on the Town

With The Shrimp now four months old, my wife and I figured
it was time to revisit a pre-baby Saturday ritual, especially given how
successful we were revisiting a pre-baby Sunday ritual. For us, a
perfect Saturday used to involve a nice long walk along the water into town,
where we would eat some lunch, do a little shopping, stop in at a nice bar, and
stroll home (or take a cab, or the bus, depending on how things went). We had
taken The Shrimp out with us on many occasions, but never had we made a full
day of it, where there would be feedings and changings to manage. Plus, we
would be on foot, without a car, and therefore without a convenient way to
abort the mission should things go wrong. We suited her up, plopped her in the
stroller and set off.

Traveling around with a young kid can be fun. Fun in the way
going to Mexico can be fun; you know something is going to go horribly wrong,
but it will probably be so inconceivably ridiculous you have to laugh before
you start crying. Like that time we rode a bus in Mexico and it rained inside the bus.

There’s a new pizza place in town we've had our eye on since
the first days of my wife’s pregnancy. It seemed like just the right kind of
place to take a little kid for lunch. It’s big and spacious, loud, full of
children, reasonably priced. And there's a nice beer selection. I've been
trying to nail down exactly why I've gained fifteen pounds since my daughter
was born. This has to be reason #254: I only feel comfortable drinking in public
with my daughter if there is food on the table in front of me. Without the food
on the table, I’m just a guy who brought his four-month old kid to a bar. With
the food on the table, I’m a responsible father spending time with his darling
daughter, socializing her, including her in all aspects of his life. So given
that the impetus for the excursion was to reclaim that pre-baby Saturday
euphoria, I wanted a beer, maybe two, maybe four. Which meant ordering an
appetizer. Then a beer. Then a salad. Then a beer. Then a pizza. And sure, why
not another beer? Who’s going to judge a man drinking beer with his pizza, even
if he does have baby on his lap? Maybe people care about this sort of thing,
maybe they don’t. And maybe I shouldn't care what other people think about my
parenting. But I do. Sue me. And I know myself too well. If I get even the
slightest little cross-eyed look, it’ll set me off into an indignant internal rage.
Like the time the woman in IKEA pointed out that my daughter wasn't wearing her seat belt while I pushed her around in a stroller. My at-the-time eight-week old
daughter, who could barely move, much less crawl out of her stroller. But I
ruminate on these things, these observations made by complete strangers, these
intrusions into my ways and means and methods. I don’t forget them. Maybe
inwardly I’m being defensive because I know I’m in the wrong (I can think of
ten good reasons to buckle an eight-week old into her stroller). I don’t know.
But the emotion is pure anger. I try to keep a “go fuck yourself” chambered, to
fire it off unconsciously at moments like these. But I always forget to keep a
“go fuck yourself” chambered. In other words, I don't take criticism very well.

Of course, nobody’s really even paying attention to my
little family sitting in the corner, eating and drinking, and enjoying a sunny
Saturday excursion. We eat as the little girl naps, wakes up, looks around,
naps some more. The waitress, as she's required to do if she expects a tip,
tells us how adorable and well-behaved our son is. I make a face and ready a
protest, but my wife reminds me that babies are supposed to be color-coded so
these gender mistakes don't get made. That's what the pink socks are for, I
tell her. It's an honest mistake, so I spare the waitress my recently-chambered
"go fuck yourself." We eat pizza. The baby bounces on my wife's leg.
My wife dips a slice of pepperoni into a puddle of ranch dressing and takes a
bite. The baby coughs. We talk. Drink some more. The baby goes back to sleep.
You've got ranch on your leg, I tell her. She dips her finger, puts it in her
mouth. She freezes. What? I ask. That's not ranch, that's puke, she tells me.
We laugh. Three months ago my wife would not have found that funny at
all.

Meal completed. Check paid. We should take The Shrimp into
the bathroom and get her changed. But for some reason we don't. We're out on
the street. The baby's getting fussy. And I'm suddenly unhappy too, because I’m
full now, but I want more beer, and that unexpectedly ridiculous moment I've been expecting hasn't happened yet, so that’s out there too, waiting for me.

We decide to go next to Starbucks. It hadn't occurred to me
to consume anything non-alcoholic on a weekend, but okay. I can get behind this
decision. It’s a good safe place for a guy to bottle-feed his daughter, which I
know I will have to do, and which I dread doing. Why? Why do I have to do it
and why do I dread it? It’s complicated. My wife has convinced me that she
cannot bottle-feed The Shrimp because The Shrimp (hey, at least we don’t call
her The Little Terrorist anymore) gets angry if mom feeds her anything other
than a boob. This hasn't actually been verified to my satisfaction, but okay,
fine. I need to make my wife happy and not bottle feeding the baby makes her
happy, so that’s that. One does not push one’s luck when one is having a nice
Saturday such as this. Things can go south all too quickly and we must protect
the happiness. But I hate bottle-feeding in public and here’s why: generally, I
don’t get weird about gender roles and child rearing. But this is an exception.
I live in a place – slash - come from a community – slash - have been indoctrinated
by my associates to believe that men and women should share all baby-related
responsibilities evenly. Because men cannot breastfeed, they do the diapers.
Even Steve. Fine. However, in some circles this sharing of duties is a point of
pride, or is seen as evidence of progressive enlightenment. The pendulum can
swing too far the other way, where you get the overcompensating daddy, who
equates his level of involvement with his level of personal awesomeness. This
guy cries himself to sleep every night because in his heart of hearts he knows
he will never lactate. The point is, whenever I bottle-feed The Shrimp in
public I become that guy just a little bit. Again, this comes down to public
perceptions I shouldn't even care about (and probably don’t even exist), but I
do care at least a little bit, as most people do. And are we really going to
let the women monopolize all the
irrational insanity? Can’t we save some for the guys too? Basically, when I
feed my daughter in public it feels like I’m doing in on purpose, to make a
point. Which I’m not. And I can’t abide being misunderstood. She’s fucking
hungry! Stop looking at me like I'm some kind of Prairie Home Companion
Naderite. But honestly, that not even really it. I don't like bottle-feeding in
public because I used to sneer at people when they did it. Which makes me a
huge hypocrite. I was indignant the way I'm still indignant about people who
bring their dogs everywhere. If your baby's hungry, go home! I used to think.
Don't crash our party with your mature adult behavior.

So, yes, there I am
bottle-feeding a baby in a Starbucks, drinking a skinny vanilla latte. All
I needed was a good fecal blowout so I could take the little girl into the
restroom for a change and thereby complete the trifecta of emasculation. We
take pictures, we…are having fun. Yes. It’s wonderful. But I want to leave and
get another beer. But we already ate and we can’t have beer without food,
right? So…so…so let’s eat again!

We crossed the road and headed into our second restaurant.
We hadn't scoped this place out, like we did the first place. This one was
cramped and crowded, with no children about, and very little room for our
stroller. Plus, the only available seats were at a high-top table in the bar
area. But the waitress complimented our baby so all was good and right with the
world. I'm not really hungry, my wife said. I'm not really either, I said. So
nachos then? Obviously. With chicken? Why not? Guacamole? Sure. Sour cream?
Sure. We ordered a couple drinks as well. I picked up The Shrimp and realized
her diaper was wet. My wife offered to take her to the lady's room, but I was
already on my feet with the freezer bag of supplies in hand. I got this. I
wanted my wife to enjoy herself. I wanted everything to go smoothly so future
excursions would be possible. Walking to the bathroom, all the college football
girls make smiley faces at my daughter. This is it, I'm thinking. Here come the
absurdity. Should I just drop her in the toilet and get it over with? I'm
expecting a gross bathroom, and am pleasantly surprised. The stall is empty,
spacious, and clean. Cradling my daughter in one arm, I somehow manage to get
her wet diaper off, clean her up, and get a clean one back on in a flawlessly
executed series of careful quick maneuvers. I check our supplies and see we
still have two diapers remaining. Then we're back at the table. My beer has arrived, my wife is
impressed, and we're all good. The nachos arrive. We both reiterate how not
hungry we are and then devour the entire massive plate in ten minutes flat.
Then there's a blowout in the stroller. I can sense it the way dogs sense
earthquakes. I've had pizza and beer and nachos on this day, and shared it all
with my two favorite people on earth. I'm thrilled. I would be happy to change
our daughter in the bathroom, I tell my wife. You sit here, get another glass
of wine. Relax. I have forgotten that nothing has gone wrong yet. Back in the
bathroom I quickly realize the logistics of changing a dirty diaper are far
more complex. I put the changing pad down on top of the toilet tank, and am immediately aware that I am violating several tenets of sound parenting. One good
twitch and she might really end up in the toilet. I picture myself returning to
our table with a soaking wet baby. Focus, I tell myself. You can do this. The supply
bag is between my legs. I get the dirty diaper off, put the diaper bag in my
mouth, hold the kid with one hand and fish out a baby wipe with the other. I
get her cleaned up and then grab a clean diaper, which is stuck to another (the
last) clean diaper. There’s a mix up. The baby moves. I lose my focus and drop
both clean diapers into the toilet. My first thought is the Five Second Rule. I
quickly realize it doesn't apply to diapers dropped in toilets at bars. What do
I do? Do I build a diaper out of toilet pap… There is no toilet paper. And,
wait, asshole, build a diaper? I get
the little girl dressed, fish the diapers out of the toilet and toss them in
the trash, and then we go back to our table. I am grimacing when my wife
catches sight of me. Something has gone wrong. But what? She is wondering. Oh,
to be able to read her mind at that moment. How he could have fucked this up,
let me count the ways…

So we pay the check and hightail it home, The Shrimp going
commando, which is no big deal, but it feels like a big deal. It feels like we’re
dancing on the rim of an active volcano. But she’s got us covered. We make it
home and her pants are dry as a bone.

We could have just gone to a market and bought some diapers,
my wife says.

That had not occurred to me, dude.

But all in all it was a big success. Though I do feel weird.
I made a scene at that bar, even if nobody noticed it. The top of a toilet tank
is no place for my precious little girl. I won’t repeat that.